


jacob's ladder

by Aduantas



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 20:38:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13174755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aduantas/pseuds/Aduantas
Summary: This is probably entirely indecipherable as it ties into some other fic I haven't been writing but it's also pretty much done, so I'm uploading it anyway. My main thought when writing this was "what kind of hell-hole does Jamie actually live in?", and thus it strongly reflects both that and my ongoing obsession with kitchens as a setting.Content warnings: mentions of surgery. Ask to tag for any other triggers.





	jacob's ladder

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this was uploaded directly from my brain at nearly 2 a.m and thus the formatting may be a little unclear. The title doesn't meany anything except that I've been listening to Chumbawamba.

Malcolm pushes at the ajar door, raps on it with aching knuckles. He can hear faint music from inside Jamie's flat, but he doesn't see any sign of the occupant.   
He steps inside. The kitchen is, as always, a fluorescent-lit nightmare of clammy white tiles and overflowing detritus: sweet wrappers, decaying takeaway boxes, smudged newspapers. There is an overwhelming smell of sour milk.   
Jamie is perched on the kitchen counter, wrapping bandages around his mid-section. Malcolm stares, because it's one of the few times he's seen Jamie shirtless.   
Jamie finishes his ministrations and rubs at his eyes. He looks as though he hasn't slept, rather than like he'd had some sort of conniption, some screaming fit, and collapsed at home.   
Jamie pulls his wifebeater back on and mumbles, tossing his head in Malcolm's direction, "Fuck're you doing here, anyway."   
There's only the barest hint of accusation, there, but Malcolm still finds himself unable to answer.   
He can hear the stereo blaring in the next room. Combat Rock, one of the three records Jamie had owned when he'd become Arts Correspondent for the Herald.   
"You've been out of work," Malcolm says, eventually, staring blankly at Jamie's innocent eyes. "Thought you'd finally snapped and gone on a killing spree."   
Jamie snorts, cursorily, hands clenching with annoyance. He edges off the kitchen counter and pads over to the fridge— the magnets rattle as he opens it, dirty postcards and yellowing receipts coming unstuck and fluttering to the floor. He pulls out a tin of Barr's Bubblegum, fumbling with the plastic yoke, and takes a glass out of the press on the right. The chipboard is showing through the white vinyl, and Malcolm once again marvels at Jamie's complete disregard for his surroundings. Most other government employees had better flats in better postcodes, but Jamie had settled down in a mid-sized crumbling apartment in a mid-sized crumbling building.   
Jamie starts slurping away at his drink, and Malcolm remembers it's five o'clock in the evening.   
"You aren't drinking?"   
"Been sick," he snaps. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Can't have a drink or it'll fuck with the pills I'm taking."   
"You've not got the flu, Jamie, you've got fuckin' plasters all over you. What's happened?"   
Malcolm can remember Jamie getting bits of himself cut open in bar fights, remembers with the clarity of terror the crack of his nose breaking and the blood flooding down his chin, but even though he looks pale and tired there are no bruises up his arms, not scratches on his hands or face.   
Jamie sucks at his teeth and looks out the door, away from Malcolm.   
"Had some surgery," he says, eventually. "Benign tumours. Doctor said four weeks off work, I'm taking three. If you want me to take some calls I can still give a bollocking from home, but I can't be running press conferences if I have to stop in every three hours to change a dressing."   
He walks his fingers up and down the side of the fridge, slouching.   
Malcolm realises he can't tell if Jamie is lying. Jamie keeps drinking, leaning against the kitchen counter.   
He doesn't _look_ sick. Recovering, maybe.   
Malcolm realises what's bothering him: he doesn't feel at all welcome in Jamie's two-bit rat-infested cave. Anywhere Jamie chose to live would inevitably have an aura of malevolence, but this time that feeling seems to be coming from Jamie himself, pushing Malcolm away out of whatever private struggle is being worked out here. In this empty room, made crowded by rank air and the loud buzz of the ancient childkiller fridge.

"Alright," he says, eventually. "Just be back before Recess." Jamie barely acknowledges him, fingering the edge of his shirt. It's faded and ragged but Malcolm can still see the green and white stripes.   
"Get better, is all," he says, awkwardly.   
"Yeah, see you."   
He pulls the door back open and leaves. The music fades out as he shuts the door on Jamie.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Barr's Bubblegum is a real drink made by the manufacturers of Irn Bru. It comes in a pink and blue striped tin and is, if anything, even worse for you than Irn Bru. I am convinced I have stolen several elements in this fic from other fic writers, and if you recognise something you're sure you came up with I'll give full credit.


End file.
